


Christmas Shipfic Collection

by Chokopoppo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, F/M, Goddamn that's a lot of tags, M/M, They will be longer than the summary and that makes me sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Christmas, I decided to give away shipfics to people, maybe out of the goodness of my blackened, shriveled heart, maybe because I like writing shipfics. The point is, this is a collection of all the Homestuck ones that have been written to date. Note: these are all REALLY SHORT, like between three and seven paragraphs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pir8crabs - Karkat / Mindfang

**Author's Note:**

> I'm only gonna say this once - chapter names are 1) the username of the person who requested the shipfic on Tumblr, and 2) the pairing in the fic. If you see that the fic gifted to you is up here, and you don't want it to be, let me know via an ask on Tumblr or a comment on Ao3. Happy hunting, chums.

He’s cute, you decide. In an ugly sort of way.

You watch him scramble around the deck, shirtless and scarred like the rest of the crew, hauling rope and scrubbing decks and climbing shit you’re pretty sure wasn’t designed to be climbed on, muscles twisting under rough skin. He’s young, and boxy – or, at least, his frame says he should be. Broad shoulders juxtapose poorly with jabbing ribs and spidery backbone, and he looks more like a contraption than a troll when he springs from one mast to the other.

The kid’s no sailor, but he’s shaping into one slowly – a passive-aggressive present from Dualscar, a weak, mutant slave bought on clearance with a note reading “not like Rosa again, eh? Wwhat a doozy that was! –DS” tied to his arm and a spade carved into his collar, newly stitched and raw. You’d crumpled the note in your hand and grabbed the boy by coarse black hair, slamming his head to the wall and hissing that he’d never be her. An embarrassing temper tantrum, to be sure, but one that put the slave in the correct mindset – he had slumped, whimpering, into wood, and you left him there, sniveling with that freak voice (pinched and wrong and loose in odd places, speaking words that sure as shit weren’t Alternian). For weeks afterwards, he cowered when he heard your footsteps, flinched when you raised your arms, and let eyes pop halfway out his skull when you called your men out on being God-damned pussies. It got worse after, when Dualscar drew his ship up against yours, you grabbed the boy by the ear and pulled him out of the crowd of sailors to show that he wasn’t dead yet.

But two months in, and he stopped fearing you. When he’s assigned to clean your cabin, he never looks like he’d piss himself in fear if you glared up at him over your journal anymore. You know, because you tried once, and he just bowed his head apologetically and kept cleaning. No matter what you do, all you get is indifference. He doesn’t react to anything now. And you hate that. Hate it.

So the next time he comes in, you’re shirtless and smoking, window cracked slightly, and as far as his stoicism reaches he is still a boy of maybe fifteen and he goes red everywhere like he’s never seen a pair of tits before. You wager he never has – and when you ask him, bluntly, he burns darker, looks away, shakes his head with a stutter and fluttering mop of hair. With another puff of impatient smoke, he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing, and scrambles to it, avoiding looking at you with deliberate care as he tries to mop your floor or dust your things. Or. Whatever it is that he’s doing. You aren’t really paying attention to what his arms are doing – why should you? Kid’s got a fine ass that deserves to be looked at. Also, this “kid” bullshit will not stand. “You there. Boy.” He startles and glances up at you as you lazily roll onto your side. “What do they call you back home?”

He looks you up and down (or at least, tries to – he gets stopped at the collarbone each time) like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or not. Eventually, however, he spits out a mangle of syllables and turns his back to your derisive laughter. “The hell kind of name is that?” You splutter out at last, “What the fuck kind of lusus did you have? How do you even…you’ve got to spell that out for me, dude. Can you write? Come on, show me.” Clearly confused by the blank journal page and quill being thrust towards him, it takes him a few seconds to catch on, and he struggles with the blue ink getting everywhere and obscuring various characters before passing it back. Karkat. “yeah, I’m just gonna pronounce that like meowbeast vehicle, m’kay? M’kay.” You stare at the handwriting with feigned interest. “Karkat. That’s really interesting. Crustacean lusus, yeah? Where are you from that assigns those to mutant freaks?” When you glance up, he’s returned to mopping the floor, back to you, and your mouth curls into a sneer. People don’t ignore you. Little red-blooded monkeys ESPECIALLY don’t ignore you. “Hey,” you snap, “when a marquise asks you a question, you ANSWER, boy. Hey, hey,” fingers, rather than voice, snap in front of his face. “Planet to space boy! You speak Alternian, kid? You need a translator?”

He hisses, slaps at your arm and flinches away from your reach. “Stop,” he gasps, and there’s the fear you missed so dearly, “nowhere! Nowhere! Stop!” You do, and fill the sudden vacuum of silence with his breath and your smoke. “Nowhere,” he repeats, “I go. With the Demoness. From other times. There.” And he stares into you, catches you by the eyes and reaches in, in, so deep it hurts and you try to tear away but you just grab him by the shoulders and pull him closer, and blow smoke into the black-and-red eyes of cornered prey.

“You’re crazy, kid,” you breathe, and spit a cigarette butt out to the side, not giving a fuck (for a moment) if it hits the ground and burns the whole ship to it’s bare bones. When you look into his eyes, you can see into infinity. Forever. “You ever tasted an ashtray?”

You take his mouth with yours and feel lowblooded-hot hands, claws, pulling on the skin of your bare back, confused, and you reach into his head vengefully and loosen him and watch stars behind your eyelids.


	2. Nysus - Blackrom Gamrezi

“Good goin’, sister. Almost like you managed not to be A HUGE WASTE OF EVERYONE’S TIME for once.”

“Shut your squalling wriggler mouth!” You snap, brandishing your stick at him as the coach calls your foul. “At least I occasionally manage to hit the puck! And I’m BLIND!”

The two of you glare at each other on the side of the field, him craning down and you on your toes to aggressively jam your shoulders into an unfriendly bump. You can barely smell the colors of his facepaint over the noxious nail-polish-scented varnish coated in stripes across your face. Everything looks like it’s through TV static, from Kanaya going mad somewhere down the field to Sollux shoving John onto the rink to Gamzee’s stupid, ugly, leering face just inches away from you. You could grab him by his paint-slimed collar and bite at his mouth right now –

“NO CANOODLING!” Like the shortest squaling cockblock in the universe, Karkat Vantas thrusts a yardstick into your chest and a hand into Gamzee’s, comically breaking your ‘moment’ like a pane of sugar-glass in an action movie’s chase scene. “We have a GAME to win, you incredible shitheads, Lalonde’s team is KILLING us. You can get all naked and kinky LATER.”

If your eyes were intact, you would be rolling them. “Karkat, no one even CARES about this game, this class credit is bullshit anyways.”

“I care about this game! Now get out there and show Strider what-for!”

You sigh heavily at your ‘captain’s’ back, then wheel on Gamzee. “You’re in SO much trouble when we get out. Seventh period ain’t worth our time.” And despite his protests, you lean forward and lick his teeth before skittering away with a grin like knives, flipping him the bird in response to his “hate your ass, BITCH” as you go.


	3. M4soch1st - Aradia/Terezi

“Your hair is like a waterfall of curls,” she whispers from behind you, and you hug your knees tighter and giggle. You are five sweeps old, and you are having your very first sleepover EVER at your friend Terezi’s house. When you told her a week ago that you’d never had one, she freaked and promised STEREOTYPICAL GIRL SLUMBER PARTY EXPERIENCES abound. Already you’ve eaten way too much junk food, put on slime suits way too early, watched a “chick flick” (Terezi didn’t actually own any, so you watched a generic action explosion whatever and yelled derisive things at the leads) and painted fingernails. Now, she sits behind you, a comb in one hand and your thick, tangled mesh of hair in the other. “After this,” she states, perfectly in charge, “you can braid my hair, and then we could talk about fashion. I bought magazines for it.”

You give a dramatized gasp and exclaim “Do you wanna talk about BOYS?” and both of you delve into hysterical giggling messes, kicking feet and waving arms like mentally disabled jackasses. Maybe you’ve had too many Red Vines, because for some reason you get an adrenaline rush and turn around to tackle your friend to the ground. She shrieks and clamps knees around your hips and rolls you over to get on top, but you are no pushover and the two of you are rolling and cackling all over the floor of Terezi’s bedroom.

She throws one knee out, eventually, halting the rolling (but not the hysteria) and trapping you under her. Half-blind with tears of laughter, you reach out to poke at her face, but she bats them away before pinning your hands next to your ears by your wrists. You kick your legs at her and she leans in close, faux-hissing “well, interloper, see what trouble your foolish ‘boys’ have caused for the court! Have you anything to say for yourself? Hmmm?” Instead of playing along, as you normally would, you let yourself wriggle and squeal all the extra energy out before glancing up at Terezi, breathing hard.

Her hands are still on your wrists.

All of a sudden, it occurs to you that she must’ve been watching you flail, and you feel a little silly, making a big deal out of that. Heat flares up in your cheeks, and you notice teal splotched across her face as well – her pupils are totally blown up, and she’s breathing harder than the tussle should have left her. The red on your face deepens, and you break eye contact. “So uh…do you, uh…” She swallows, then tries again. “Wanna make out?” Your face must have shown your utter shock at the statement, because she backpedals as quickly as she came. “It’s, uh, part of the girl’s slumber party roleplay scenario,” she adds hastily. “Optional part, though. We could…skip it…”  
“Or, we could…not,” your mouth says, without really consulting with your thinkpan first. “This is an ideal stereotype scenario, after all.” And you throw in your most convincing wink. Terezi has really pretty eyes, you decide, watching them widen. Actually, she’s just super pretty. You didn’t just decide that now, though. You’ve known since…maybe half a sweep a oh her lips are on yours wow gosh they sure are soft. They don’t feel like they chap until they bleed and scab over, like yours do, or even like she slathers them in balm or oil like you see Vriska do all the time. It’s just softness, on your lips, and then your cheek, jaw, wet against your neck as you gasp and struggle against her, sharp teeth pulling a cry from a cast-open mouth, voice warbling as hot breath blows cold on wet skin, and she drops her head, breathing heavy, to rest on your shoulder. You wrap newly freed arms around her and tangle fingers through unbraided hair, and just breath with her.

Eventually, she raises her head. “Wanna go get pizza?”


	4. Yourmatesprit - Erisol

Glaring at his stupid gelled, waxy coif, you let the instructor’s voice wash over you and weigh the pros and cons of stabbing him through with your pencil right now. Pros: satisfaction of stabbing Eridan through with pencil. Cons: being charged with attempted manslaughter. Manslaughter only being ‘attempted’. Hearing his whiny voice. FF never speaking to you again.

The cons just barely win. Plus, you don’t have a pencil.

Instead, you decide to be ‘constructive’, and pull up a new word document on your laptop. After a few moments of typing in legit notes (so the page won’t look suspicious if Professor Droog comes around to the back row for any reason), you make a bullet point list of ways you could attack him right now, from joking him with his scarf to bashing him over the head with your computer to squeezing a whole bottle of hair gel into his mouth and threatening him with a lit flame. As much as he annoys you, you’d admit that the guys is a fine piece of fish-face that you’d just as quickly tap as gut. Tapping the tab button to start a new list, you find yourself considering reasons NOT to throttle him. The way he looks in the gym showers. His flexing headfins. That totally squeezable ass, and the way he smells when you pin him against the wall and tell him his ass is grass, or the way he shoves you back and snarls that oh please, like he’d lose to some pissblood anyway, stalking away with remains of fear twisted in his shoulders regardless. Those eyes, wide and glassy and powerful with bare silhouettes of color.  
Like he can feel you scrutinizing him, Eridan looks up from his screen, then turns slightly to find the source of the odd prickly sensation you bet he’s getting all over his neck. When he turns fully to see you, you give him a shit-eating grin and wiggle your fingers coyly at him. He gets this look on his face like he’s going to rip your throat out and make you eat it right here on the table, but Droog clears his throat loudly, and fishface (reluctantly) turns back around in his seat. You grin. The victory is a small one, but you’ll take anything.

A message icon pops up in the corner of your screen. Glancing at the professor to make sure he’s not watching, you carefully click it to check your inbox. It’s not from AA, or even FF – unless FF stands for Fish-Face, A.K.A. Eridan, A.K.A. the guy who the message is from.

“youre dead gutterblood – ed”

Despite yourself, you almost laugh, typing back a concise “yeah iid like two 2ee you try fii2h boy – 2c” and watching him tense with anger at it. Oh yeah. You are so good.


	5. Lesayue - Cotton Candy

“Okay, so like. Say ver a sec that butter isn’ a carb. THEN could we put three sticks in these cookies er what?” Roxy has a pound of butter in her hand (minus half a stick) and she’s shaking it in a lax kind of way at you. You sigh and roll your eyes as you beat the eggs.

“It’s not a matter of carbs, Roxy,” you start, putting on your ‘knowledgeable’ tone. “If you put too much butter in cookies, they won’t bake. Or even really rise! They just sort of melt and bubble all over the pan.” You know this from experience. Once, when you were grounded, you tried to bake delicious confectionaries for your dad to show him how grown-up and mature you were, and ended up with a kitchen full of smoke and crappy melted food. Not an experience you intend to repeat. You shake the memory out of your head and look over at Roxy, but she’s still staring at the butter. “Ro, could you grab the flour? It’s under the cabinet down there.” You gesture with your beater.

She isn’t even listening. “Okay, Janey, big question. So like, if there was no repercussions-“

“Were no repercussions, Roxy.”

“Right, right, if there was no repercussions to yer body er health er whatever, would you eat butter?” She doesn’t see your eyebrows shoot up. “Like. Just butter. All by it’s own self. Would ya?”

Somehow, in your head, that translates oddly, and suddenly you’re picturing your best friend naked and dripping with butter, plunging another stick in her mouth and you’re not sure if you’re awkwardly aroused or just sickened. Either way, your face goes red. “Roxy! No, ew! Who would even DO that?”

But Roxy is nothing if not observant. “Hey, Janey, why’re you all red? You okay? You sick? I mean, I know that was gross, but come on, I’ve said worse. Today.” And before you can stop her, she scuttles her way into your personal space, hands resting on the counter behind you, arms boxing you in on either side. “You okay?” She says again, quieter, closer. “You need to go lie down?”

You’re breathing the same air, both of you. If you just leaned forward right now, you could catch her lips with yours, pull her in…

“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say, and curse everything, “just a little hot. I think it’s the oven, maybe I should get out of the kitchen for a little while.” And you smile and nod at your friend.

She doesn’t look convinced, but she leans away from you, and you breathe a little easier. “Maybe you should go ‘n put on some less wintery clothes then, eh? I kin hold down fort until you get back.” You smile and nod again, because that seems to be what you’re good at, then abscond the fuck out of the room and lass scamper upstairs.

You will put in the LEAST wintery clothes, Roxy had better believe it.


	6. SaunteredVaguelyDown - Dirk/Caliborn

He’s much shorter than you imagined. Uglier, too.

“Do you know the words. Dirk?” He’s trying to taunt you, you think, but you don’t feel particularly threatened – or even insulted – by the stammering little green monster in front of you. He looks, like, eleven. Angry as you used to be about him and Calliope, you just can’t rise to the bait of a 6th grader in a bowtie and suspenders. “Because. They are simple. Much like your human brain. I bet that. If you knew them. You would be able to sing with me. It could be impressive.”

If you were rolling your eyes any harder, they would roll out of your head and across the vast, black landscape. Those eyes would be on an adventure. Some J.R.R. Tolkien-type shit would be going down there. Shit be epic. “Look, I know I’m the shit, and you probably want to spend all your time chilling with me, but I’m actually in kind of a hurry, here. So I’ll just go now.” You turn to the side, as if to go, and you hear him panic.

“Wait! You can’t go!” You swivel your head back to him, watch him jolting, arm out, then rebounding and pulling back when he realizes you’re looking back. “I mean. You CAN’T go. Obviously. There is no one to help you. You are stuck here until I say you can go.” He grins, shuffles his body like he’s reassuring himself. You narrow your eyes behind shades, square yourself off against him. Take three heavy steps in his direction. Hold back your smirk as he stumbles back, surprised and a bit scared, huge eyes growing huger, bumping into his gargantuan keyboard. He’s even shorter up close – his head reaches your pectorals at best, and you almost feel bad for scaring him like this. He’s kind of cute when he’s trying to cover up his fear. You kind of want to get down on one knee and grab his shoulders and have a straight-up well-done-son-guy moment. Be all fatherly and shit. But then you remember he’s a little shithead, so you don’t.

“Listen, kid,” you snap, and your voice comes out so harsh you almost flinch (and he definitely does), “I’m going to be perfectly frank with you. I don’t want to be here. I don’t know how you got me here, or why you chose me, but believe me, you made a poor choice either way. Take me back, now, or this fist goes in your face and breaks your not-nose.” You draw an arm back, threateningly, and to your half-amusement he throws clawed arms up to protect his face. You wonder at the mileage you could’ve gotten by grabbing his collar, too, and tuck it away as an idea for later.

“I don’t know!” He yelps from the other side of the arm barrier, “If I did. I would tell you! I wouldn’t be here!” You grab his collar to shake him, and the words pool out faster. “I don’t know how you got here. The clown knows. But he won’t tell me. Or take me. If I knew how to get to your session. I would be there. Instead of.” He gestures around with his arms, forgetting the threat of getting punched for a second. “On this rock! I hope you don’t think. That I would be here by choice.” He’s breathing hard by the time he finishes, and you slowly release his collar, letting him slump against the table and onto the ground. You take a few steps back and turn to stare out at the planet, throwing out a general chat-call to your team. No answer. You can’t hear the wind, or animals, or consorts or footsteps or anything.

Suddenly, you feel very, very alone.

“Get up, kid,” you call back to him, “and get over here.” He scrambles up behind you, thoroughly whipped, and you take one small, clawed hand in yours. “We’re going clown-hunting.”


	7. Spocketelaine - Grimdorks

You cannot believe you let yourself get talked into this. It is the end of times. Your masculinity has gone fluttering away in the wind with barely a glance thrown back to you.

“Purple or blue?” Rose’s voice rises from your feet.

Your name is JOHN EGBERT and you are letting your bet friend paint your toenails in exchange for letting you copy a take-home test. You’re okay with her wanting some payback for potentially getting caught and both of you flunking (didn’t happen – with the magic of paraphrasing and lazy teachers, you both got off scot-free), but why wasn’t it mowing her lawn or making her a cake or buying her dinner or something? Why THIS? “Uh, blue,” you reply, and bury your face in your hands. She hums complacently and takes your foot in one cool, slim hand, unscrewing the cap of the bottle in the other masterfully. The scent is powerful and unfamiliar, and it punches you in the face so hard you’d probably have a shiner if this wasn’t a metaphor. Your leg convulses a little when the brush touches the first nail. Rose said you wouldn’t feel it. She totally lied.

You are never living this down. Ever.

“Alright, prop that foot up on the table,” she instructs, and you do it without thinking. She mumbles something about you doing very well as she takes your other foot in her hands, but you don’t really hear it. You blink, wide-eyed, at the already done-up foot. The word “polish” seems appropriate – each nail shines, oddly sparkling under gloss, blue and wet and it’s like gazing into the ocean, different lines and streaks of colors in veins of varying deepness of blue. When Rose sets the other foot next to the first, then screws the cap back onto the bottle and sits next to you, all you can do is stare at them, wiggling your toes slightly.

“Rose, you are really good at this, wow!” you say at last, because it feels like the right thing to say, and she blushes and shakes her head and wow, you didn’t know Rose could look bashful.

“It’s just the polish, really,” she mumbles, tucking blond hair behind her ear, “it’s a really good brand. Good colors.”

You suddenly feel kind of vulnerable. You are slumped on Rose’s couch in sweatpants and a wifebeater, feet bare and toes painted, and she’s next to you, made up in slacks and a collar and a sweater vest and shiny light soft fluffy hair next to your natty mop and oh god what are you DOING with her? What is SHE doing with YOU? What is someone as brilliant an witty and beautiful and talented as Rose Lalonde doing with anyone as loserly and gawky and buck-toothed as John Egbert (that is to say, you)? You open your mouth, maybe to ask why, but she takes your hand in hers and your mouth snaps shut.

“Want me to do your hands?” She looks up at you to make eye contact, and before your brain can talk you out of it you catch her jaw with your free hand and kiss her, sweet as you can, and long, cold fingers grab your shoulder and hair and doesn’t let you go even as lips twist against yours.


	8. Katyglyndwr - RoseKat

Upon sliding into the booth-bench across from him, you think one thing and one thing only – God damn, Kanaya trussed him up sharp.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, you are 29, and you decided a long time ago that by the time you were 30, you wouldn’t be alone on New Years. Romantically speaking, that is – you can never be really alone while you have your brother and best friends shoving their way into your life. But, shit, everyone other than them is utterly terrified of you, and the big three-zero is coming up fast, so you went to your co-workers for help. The girl at the desk (young woman, you correct yourself), Kanaya, said that she had a friend who was about your age, and with some maneuvering, you ended up here, wearing a nice shirt and lipstick that “brought out your eyes” (EVERYTHING brings out eyes like yours), sitting across from…

“Karkat Vantas?” You ask, and he nods and holds out a hand to shake.

“Rose Lalonde,” he replies, and it feels like he’s asking so you nod your head and shake his hand, and he half-smiles and nods back and you refuse to start the night off with a nod-fest so you just smile and settle into your seat.

The conversation lulls.

“So!” You force a smile and flip a page of the menu. “Kanaya wouldn’t tell me – what is it that you do for a living?” Mentally, you make a note that a bottle of chardonnay is six dollars. You’ll probably need it.

He shrugs. “Journalist. Back when I was younger, I aspired to write the next Great American Novel or whatever, but I found out pretty fast that no one pays you to sit around, artfully consumed by writer’s block, if you’re not throwing anything out in the meanwhile. Plus, I suck at writing.” He gives you a full smile this time, lopsided, so you smile back and he glances down at his menu like maybe he’s blushing and you realize that you’re not the only one feeling awkward and nervous. The image shatters as he looks back up at you, though – eyebrows raised in interest. “But, I mean. You, you’re a novelist, right? On top of your day job.” He holds out a palm like he’s ready for your oral exam, and you fail to resist the urge to snort.

“Kanaya has been feeding you lies,” you shake your head, “I’m not a novelist. Well, I mean, not REALLY.” Shrug. “I published one book, and a rather mediocre one at that. When I was 18. Not my best work.” You sigh and run your eyes over the seafood portion. “I went into editing for the same reason you went into journalism. Writing wasn’t going to pay for room and board.” When you glance up, he is staring at you, mouth slightly agape. Feeling a bit self-conscious, you touch a hand to your cheek. “Did I grow tentacles or something?”

“You published a novel when you were 18?”

“Not a good one!” You shrug and laugh nervously, and he stares at you and shakes his head.

“I can’t do this sober,” he sighs, and throws up his hands, “I think I need to be drunk as shit to be having this conversation.”

You twist your smile as coy as you can and rub a foot up his calf. “The chardonnay is half off.”


	9. Themangritjournals - RoseKat

“What’s at the end of a million, anyway? Zero, zero, zero. Nothing. A circle with a hole through it.”

You sigh contentedly and sink further into your pile. Humfry Bogart is on par with Will Smith, Dane Cook, and Gordon Ramsey as an entertainer. Possibly even above par. You cannot believe it took you this long to discover him. That firm brow, that stern jawline, those dark eyes that defy color (okay, so maybe that’s because the film is in black and white)… Which isn’t even touching on his abilities as an actor. His voice rumbles through you, smooth and suave. You are literally swooning all over the place right now.

“What are you…is that Sabrina? Trolls have Humphrey Bogart?” You jolt and swivel around as best as you can in a pile to see Rose Lalonde standing at the door of your respiteblock (uninvited), her eyes wide and curious. You narrow yours.

“What are you doing here?” You snap. “What do you want?” Secretly, you find yourself embarrassed about the mess in your room, but she doesn’t even seem to notice, creeping closer and sinking into your pile next to you.  
“Oh, Terezi wanted me to tell you we’re passing through a bubble. I can’t believe it,” she gestures helplessly at the screen, “I’m watching Sabrina in Alternian. This is so surreal.” And you watch, openmouthed, as she mouths the words along with Audrey Hepurn. You are just as transfixed on her as she is on the screen.

“Humans have In Which A Yellow-Blooded Troll In The Service Of Two Indigo-Bloods Flees The Country And Meets A Seadweller Whom She Befriends Before Returning Glamorized And Begins A Catacalysm Of Wacky Romantic Or Humorous Scenes, Including Two Cases Of Sitting On Glass, Three Scenes Of Hat…Fixing…” you tamper off, because she’s staring at you like maybe she wants you to shut up and the intensity of her eyes makes Bogart’s pale in comparison. Your bloodpusher thrums in your ears, and you have the sudden thought (realization?) that you are a protagonist in a romcom, and you are failing. “Uh, I mean. You called it…what? Sabine?” Your neck burns. Your ears burn. Everything burns and you can’t look away from those eyes.

You can’t believe past you didn’t think Rose was pretty. That is just like past you. That guy is such a stupid asshole.

“Sabrina,” she says at last, “we call it Sabrina. With Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart? We could…I mean, if you’d let me, we could…watch it together, if you want.” She bites her lip, and her eyes flicker down and back along your body. Your ears heat up again and she meets your eyes and her lips stretch into a coy grin. Slowly, she reaches forward and wraps her arms around your waist, shifting closer to you and resting her head on your shoulder. Unsure of what to do (you are SO not prepared for this), you slide an arm around her shoulders and let her lean in to you. After a moment, you rest your cheek on her hair and let the French music wash over you.

Both of you cry when the indigo-blood gets on the boat.


	10. Ruf1ohfly1ngh1gh - Grimdorks

The rain roars down, and you scowl at it. You have been waiting for your date for a good 20 minutes now, and even if he WERE to show, you wouldn’t be spending the evening with him. You have experience with being blown off, and if you haven’t gotten a call within 20 minutes of the arranged meeting time, the other person is a no-show. You sigh, rub your temples, and wave your waiter over for another glass of wine. This is your third blind date in as many weeks, and the second time said date has no apparent intent to show up. However, the night isn’t a COMPLETE bust – the wine is really quite excellent, even if you generally just shut up and swig.

“Bad night, huh?” You blink and look up at your waiter. He’s pouring you another glass of wine, not really looking at you but smiling in a generally friendly way. “It is really coming down out there. Loads of traffic. I guess everyone’s driving pretty slow.” He glances up from the glass and meets your eyes – his are stark and blue and spectacles, a note you take down mentally for your next protagonist. “Whoever it is you’re waiting for, they’re probably just stuck in traffic somewhere. Give them ten more minutes.” He corks the bottle, and the only thing left in your head is ‘who the fuck is this asshole’. You narrow your eyes.

“You REALLY want me to ask you how you figured that out, don’t you?” You fix him with the look your mother taught you and tip the edge to your mouth. He, on the other hand, identifies your joke and laughs.

“It’s not like it was too hard to figure out,” Broad grin, “You’ve been in here three times in the past three weeks, and you’re always waiting for someone.” His mouth flips into a frown. “Man, maybe it’s not my place to say, but why do you always date these losers? They’re just wasting your time with their bullshit.”

You sigh and shrug. “I dunno. I guess I’m attracted to insufferable pricks.” He laughs again, and you smile in spite of yourself before being struck with a sudden thought. “Say, what’s up with the sympathetic waiter thing? Shouldn’t you be a bartender for me to be chatting like this?”

“Not much employment for sympathetic bartenders these days, what with alcoholism on a decline. But I’ve got the booze,” he hold up the wine in his hands, “I can polish it if you want. It might ‘enhance the mooooooood’…” He holds the bottle like an infant and rubs his hand over it ‘sensually’, wiggling his eyebrows, and you throw a hand over your mouth to half-silence your laughter.

It is the best stand-up date you have ever had. You order dinner for yourself instead of walking out, laugh louder than you have in months at jokes that shouldn’t be all that funny, fill a whole pocket notebook with character development ideas, and before you leave, you drop a fifty-dollar tip into the folder and a note on lined paper with your name, number, and a “Call me maybe? ;)” (something he convinced you to let him sing). When you hear his manager yelling at him for spending so much time at one table, you drop in a hundred as well. And right before you leave the restaurant itself, he offers to walk you out to your car, since he has an umbrella and you don’t. At the door of the car, you kiss him on the cheek, and at his red-faced stammering, you smile and kiss him RIGHT and he drops the umbrella in his haste to hold on to you and by the time you sit down and close the door you are soaked anyway.

He calls you.


	11. Mywordsweretaken - Erinep

She isn’t afraid of you.

Everyone’s scared of you – Kar, Sol, Eq, hell, probably even Fef, if you’re gonna be honest with yourself – because you are SCARY. The number of trolls you’ve done away with numbers in the hundreds, if not thousands. You and Vris, you terrorized half the planet with your games, and even that left both of you scared of each other, of the fights, of the kismesis. (You like to tell yourself, sometimes, that she broke it off because she was scared, not bored – but that’s such a lie even YOU can’t believe yourself for too long.)

But the first time you meet your kismesis’s neighbor’s moirail, you’re scrambling. You walk in, shoulders back, cape flaring out impressively behind you, and leer over her where she’s hidden under the desk, playing with something Eq must have made. You give her the glare that cracks mirrors (you know it does, because you practiced it in front of one), but instead of cowering, she grins up at you, and you feel your face falter. “Oh, hi! Equihiss said Vwiskers’ kismesis was coming over. That’s you, right? Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Nepeta Leijon!” And she holds her hand out to shake, and you’re so taken aback that you almost do it.

But then you remember who she is. Who you are. You snatch your hand back and fix her with your most condescending sneer. “Please. I don’t get touchy with peasants.” Even though Equius puffs up and squares off like he’s about to punch you, Nepeta just laughs and informs you that you are hilarious – and she really likes your cape, where did you get stuff like that? – and the number of loops she throws you for multiplies until you and Vris get the hell out and kiss angrily like the adults you TOTALLY ARE.

You get her trolltag and start off with an apology (which she doesn’t even want), and you find out quickly enough that she’s way into romance and stuff. You introduce her to Kar, since you know he’d be all up with that adorable matchmaking enthusiasm, and pretend it doesn’t sting when she comes back squealing about how cute he is and thanking you for introducing her to him. You tell her about your relationship issues, about Vris, and then Fef, and then Sol (wwhat an insufferable shithead that guy is like for real), but not about the constant through all of it, because you can’t. You tell Kar instead, and he tells you to get her off his back and you want to HURT him, one of your best friends, because no one gets to say that kind of thing about her, imply that she isn’t fucking perfection in the body of an irritating roleplayer. You think you remind Kar more than Eq does to be careful with her feelings, even though you’re pretty sure she has emotions of steel what with her ability to resist your mad awesome glare.

For your 6th wriggling day, she sends you a cape. It’s made of an animal hide and a drawing of the two of you holding hands with the word “Furriends!” written on it and you burst into tears, whether from joy or pain you could never decide. You hung it on the wall and wrapped up in the cape when you felt alone, and watched out for her as best as you could, and wanted so badly you could die.


	12. Technicallesbian - Rosemary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oop, this one is pseudo-porny. There are boobs. NAKED BOOBS.

There’s nothing like tanning on lawn chairs on a meteor thousands of miles from the nearest star, you decide. Especially when your hot best friend is commenting on her ‘boobs’ and how they fit into her suit, filling silence after she cut you down from a facetious argument (that you tried to explain) with her typical “you needn’t tip your hand, Kanaya, you were really doing quite well” in that painfully condescending voice. You kind of want to slap her when she does it. But instead, you use the new conversation to ogle her in a manner most righteous. Seized with inspiration, you dismount your own chair and kneel down over next to hers. “So these are like rumble spheres for humans, yes?” Genuinely curious, you reach over and gently poke one with a finger. She stiffens, but you don’t even notice – the movements of her body are mesmerizing. “On Alternia, they were padding for protection in battle – but you said that on Earth, it is the males who are warriors.” You purse your lips and reach out again, three fingers along the side this time. “So what are these for?”

Rose is slightly pink in the ears, and she doesn’t look at you when she speaks. “They’re for…feeding young, I suppose. It’s a mammalian thing. You probably wouldn’t understand.” She laughs nervously, and you do too, sliding careful fingers over the front and finding a suspicious bump. When you poke it, she draws a deep breath through her teeth. “Uh, they are, ah, erogenous zones, however, so…” She gives you a meaningful look, and your face burns jade acutely everywhere as you snatch your hand away and stammer apologies. Dammit, you are so dumb. You wreck everything like this. You…

“So if you want them, I hope I can be expecting some sloppy makeouts first.” You look up – Rose is lying back on her chair, arms pillowing behind her head, no sign of the embarrassed girl you just saw. You think you liked that girl better; more stammering and blushing and less ‘Oh, Kanaya, I keep telling you that you needn’t tip your hand so easily, when will you learn?’ The challenge accepted, you crawl up on the lawn chair, a knee on either side of the hips.

“How do humans perform sloppy makeouts?”

She gives you a Look. “We breathe arousal into the air and sniff each other’s backs. Erotically.”

“Really?” You can’t help grinning. “Trolls do it like this.”

And you catch her around the ears and draw her into you and she gasps, eyelashes fluttering closed on your cheek, and she holds you everywhere and breathes whenever you separate and you are diving and she is water and you are water and she is diving and you pull back and kiss cheeks, ears, neck, and she curves into you and gasps. As your hand slides down over one of her rumble-spheres, tugging at strings, she gasps out, “I was just kidding about the makeout thing. This is how we do it, too.”

Oh God, you cannot resist.

You grin up at her, all pink gasping flesh, and say, “I know, Rose. You needn’t always tip your hand. You were doing quite well.” And back down you go, her voice rising all the way.


	13. Nellietheheartless - Eridan/Roxy

You like wizards. Like, a lot. If you had to choose between going back in time and living with your mother, or fucking a wizard, you would definitely go stay with your mother, but you would regret not fucking that wizard for the rest of you life.

And now, the universe is finally giving back. It took your mom, and freedom, and civilization and everything, but it has giving you a sexy wizard with gills and glasses and a magic wand. He has a cape. A cape. You grin uncontrollably and scramble over to meet him, holding out a hand to help him up off his ass. “Hey, hey, what’s yer name?” Giggle uncontrollably.

He glares at you over his glasses and scrambles to his feet, ignoring your hand. “I think the REAL question here is, who are you, all bustin’ into my bubble like this?” He looks so indignant, like a flared up kitty, that you can’t be bothered to stop yourself from laughing. He looks even more ruffled, and you just laugh harder.

“I bust into yer bubble, oh my god, I never even thought about it like that. Ah…” You rub at your eyes. “No, no, though, for reals. I’m Roxy. So, mister wizard, what’s YER name?”

He sneers. “I am NOT a w-wizard!” You notice the stammer right off the bat. Totally adorable, hello? “This w-wand is for science only! W-wizards use magic, which ain’t even real. Use your brain! Obwiously, I could newer – “

“I leik…like…wizards.” You cut him off with a wink and a grin. “Like. A lot.”

He doesn’t need a full minute to catch on – his eyebrows raise and he grins as you both converge on the spot. “Y’know, science is sort a a KIND a magic…” he states, like he’s going to start yammering on again, lecture you or something, so you shut him up. With your mouth. Sexily.

When you part, he’s a little out of breath and his glasses are askew. Your lipstick is smeared around his mouth. “Eridan,” he says, sounding bewildered, “I’m Eridan.”

“Nice ta meetcha!” You’re breathless and cheery, and you grab his mouth with yours again.


End file.
